


Where Do You Go?

by IndraraSkye



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Mention of Scott McCall - Freeform, Sorry Not Sorry, but not that kind of shower scene, no context for anything, physical injuries, pre-Sterek - Freeform, shower scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 15:59:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15998573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IndraraSkye/pseuds/IndraraSkye
Summary: A tiny, short little scene with absolutely no context to anything that sees Derek physically helping an injured Stiles and trying to get information out of him. From Stiles's POV; a glimpse into an AU future.





	Where Do You Go?

“Where do you go?”

Derek helped him into the shower, practically dragging his mass over the step up with a sort of considered ease. It was, frankly, insulting. He’d bulked up quite a bit between working out for lacrosse and physically running and fighting with werewolves. He was practically dead on his feet. Derek should at least have the grace to act like dragging him around was a bit harder. He’d really hoped the beta would have gotten over his need to show off these last few years. 

“Thanks, Der. I got it from here.” He braced himself for the shift in balance when the wolf let go of him to leave, putting more pressure on his left leg than it would probably support once he was standing on his own. The ooze slimed through his jeans with the increase in pressure. He was never getting that stain out. He started to shrug his flannel overshirt off. Strong hands covered his own, pushing them back down to his sides before rubbing up his arms and removing the shirt for him. He closed the one eye that hadn’t swollen shut and let it happen.

“I get these calls that you’ve once again slipped from Scott’s tether senses on random occasions, and then two or three days later you call me to come drag what looks like your beaten and battered corpse into the shower. Where do you go?”

He dutifully held his arms up when his t-shirt shifted its way off his body in one awkward bunch, then put one hand over the ridiculously large hand reaching for the button of his fly. _Where do you go?_

“Woah, there, Big Guy. I got this. Really. Thanks for your help, as always, but the fact that we’re pack is not enough for me to get naked in front of you, and it certainly isn’t enough for you to get to strip me naked.” The other ridiculously large hand swatted his away, and fingers popped the button on his denim. The scowl he just _knew_ the werewolf was sporting practically seared into the back of his head. He let loose an exhausted sigh. This was apparently happening.

_Where do you go?_

His jeans slouched down to the ooze point on his left leg, slime and blood and coagulants combining in a mass that almost fused the denim to his skin. A hand rested itself practically around his right hip. The hot, sticky breaths stopped fogging up the skin on the back of his neck. He could have sworn he heard knees creaking behind him, which seemed unlikely since werewolves were bastards and didn’t have to worry about such physical ailments. A thumb rubbed across the ooze stain and his leg. He winced in response.

“Deep breath in, Stiles. This is going to hurt.”

_This is going to hurt._ He wanted to shout, ‘Then don’t do it,’ but Derek would do it anyway—Derek always did it anyway—and he wasn’t sure he could raise his vocal volume to the point of yelling. He was croaking his words out as it was. 

Denim ripped. His skin burned. His veins throbbed. Something cold and sticky trickled in tiny waves down his leg from the point of impact. Two seconds later his jeans rustled against the floor of the stall, falling in front of the rest of his clothes. He was now naked and shivering in a one-person shower stall with Derek Hale’s massive hand around his hip and those hot, sticky breaths back to fogging up his neck. _This is going to hurt._

Tiny little coarse hairs that reminded him of fur tingled against the cuts and scrapes of one arm as Derek reached around him to turn the water on. They were pressed so tightly against each other Derek’s belt dug into the skin of his lower back. This hurt.

“Enough’s enough, Sour Wolf. I’m gonna need you to exit, stage left.”

Derek turned the warm water up, keeping himself pressed against Stiles and not addressing Stiles’s urgent and vocal _need_ to be alone in the shower. He hung his head, his body slouching further into Derek’s mass behind him. Hot water shredded into him, sharp pinpricks of what felt like metal slashing under his skin and tickling at his hair. 

“You always look just this side of dead when I have to come throw you into your shower. Your words slur as you mumble them toward me. Your hands and fingers are bruised and broken. Your nose is broken or your eyes are black and swollen or your lips are cut and twice their normal size. Where do you go?”

The smell of honey and apple overtook the copper tang stuck in his nose and then five soapy fingers massaged his head, the nails scratching at his scalp. Derek’s clothes must have been completely drenched by now. That hand was still wrapped around his hip. His head lolled to one side. This hurt.

He blocked everything out. He didn’t have the physical energy to deal with the mental turmoil, and apparently Derek had him this time. He barely registered the soft, fluffy cotton breezing against his skin. The creamy sting and whiskey burn that popped along the skin surrounding his myriad “wounds” tethered him to his body. The soft touch bringing those sensations calmed his overworked nerves.

He opened his one good eye again when flannel rubbed itself lightly up his bare chest. The bed dipped slightly to his left. Derek looked down at him, his face speaking of calm and curiosity. “Where do you go?”

He couldn’t figure out why Derek was still there. 

His answer was a whispered “far from home.”


End file.
